The Best Gesture of My Brain
by washtellmeimpretty
Summary: Sherlock had never been one to acknowledge feelings. When he realized he was in love with John Watson, he pushed it aside and forgot about it. So what happens when he and John wake up in bed together? Co-Authored with High-Functioning Ginger
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey guys! I haven't written in a while, this is weird I bet you all forgot about me! Well I'm back! This is going to be a multichaptered fic, and I'm going to be co-authoring it with one of my favorite authors, High-Functioning Ginger! I'm really excited, to see how she contributes to the story! Her bit will be coming in next chapter, she's writing for John's POV and I'm Sherlock. Anyway . . . have a nice read! Reviews are appreciated.**

Chapter 1

Sherlock was never a man to dwell on the emotional. Of course Sherlock _had _emotions, that was a common misconception. He felt things, he knew they were there, but he never let them affect him. To let one's feelings take control, to 'follow one's heart', made things inevitably messy. It nearly never provided satisfactory results, nearly always ruined everything. So when Sherlock realized he had romantic feelings toward one John Watson, he tucked them away, and forgot all about them. For a while. It was all working quite well until one afternoon in July. Work had been rather slim these days and Sherlock was a bit testy, which meant John was a bit testy. Everything was very passive-aggressive in 221B. Sherlock was brooding on the couch, when John came down the hall, towel wrapped around his hips, absolutely dripping, smelling of body wash. Sherlock's felt something twinge in his lower abdomen, and he frowned, shifting to ease his discomfort. John was saying something but Sherlock was distracted but a small drop of water sliding down John's chest, coming to rest in his towel.

"Hmm?" Sherlock muttered, eyes flitting back to John's face.

"Have you seen my razor? It should be under the sink, but I can't find it . . ." John trailed off, walking into the kitchen and looking around the shelves. Of course, Sherlock knew exactly where the razor was. He'd seen it earlier that morning; it had fallen behind the cleaning supplies in the bathroom.

"No" he answered, doing his best to sound disinterested. "Haven't seen it" Sherlock then leapt up and walked briskly to his bedroom, so John wouldn't see the bulge in his trousers. _This is going to have to stop._

However, it didn't stop. In fact, it got worse. Soon Sherlock was dreaming about the man, found himself smiling at random intervals throughout the day, only to discover he was thinking about John. It was getting ridiculous. Mrs. Hudson said he looked _smitten._ Sherlock Holmes didn't act smitten, not ever. He tried to stop it, over and over tried to convince himself it wasn't happening but he soon reached his breaking point. John had brought home women before, of course he had, loads of them. But this was just pathetic. This woman was at least ten years older than him, but was dressed as though she was twenty. She had a ridiculous amount of makeup on, and Sherlock was sure that wasn't her natural hair color. But John seemed enamored. The look on his face made Sherlock's skin crawl. How could this man, John, who was the only truly interesting person he'd encountered since Uni, fall for this disgusting woman, with her alcoholic ex-husband and her psychological need to have a man to be happy? It was ridiculous, and Sherlock wouldn't stand for it. As he heard them kissing goodnight in the doorway, he began to plot.

The next morning, Sherlock woke up early, and caught a cab to the nearest book store. He wondered around a few minutes, before finding the self-help section. He tried to look as suave as possible while he perused the titles. When a woman passes through the aisle, he quickly grabs a few books, shoves them inside his coat, and walks to the checkout. He was going to do this right. Like every experiment, he had to start with research. He would read the books, right a procedure, and carry it out to produce satisfactory results. He'd do everything right. He'd have to. This was John, this was important. Once he got home, Sherlock deflected John's greeting with a nervous smile and bolted upstairs to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. He walked over to his bed, dumping the books across the comforter. He picked up the first one. _How to Woo That Special Someone: A Man's Guide to Attracting a Partner. _Sherlock flipped open to the first page, and began reading.

Several hours later, Sherlock finished the last book. _Fascinating,_ he thought to himself, _that people put so much effort into attracting a partner. It really can't be as hard as all that, can it? _He sighed, stretching. Sitting in the same position for four hours caused some discomfort, he'd realized. _Suppose I'll find out_, he decided, venturing out into the living room.

Asking your perspective partner out on a date. That was step one. Sherlock descended the stairs slowly, mapping out what he was going to say in his mind. _John, how would you feel if . . . God, am I starved . . . Have you eaten yet or would you . . ._ He shook his head to clear it. The book had said to just say whatever came natural, to pander to John's mood. And they were surely more experienced than Sherlock, so he would take them on their word. He entered the kitchen warily, seeing John sighing wearily into the fridge. Perfect opportunity. He grinned. "Nothing to eat?" he asked, nonchalantly. John shook his head regretfully. "Let's go to Angelo's, then." _Offer to pay for dinner. It helps establish the romantic parameters of the outing. _"My treat." John raised his eyebrows, but sighed heavily. "Might as well. Yeah. Let me grab my coat." Sherlock nodded, pleased, as John left the room. This was going better than he'd planned. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard after all.

Sherlock slammed the door to him bedroom, and threw himself into bed. Well that was an utter failure. John spent the first thirty minutes of dinner rambling on and on about Jessica, or Genevieve or something like that and when Sherlock had had quite enough, John got quiet and left before finishing his dinner. Did he not understand what Sherlock was trying to do? He'd done everything the books said. He'd smiled, complimented John, provided casual touches, and looked interested in what John was saying. John was supposed to be the dating expert; surely he understood that it was a date? Sherlock groaned loudly, then picked up the book from his bedside table. _Sometimes, subtlety isn't the best option_, he read. _Sometimes you have to make it very clear to the person that you are perusing them. It may become necessary to use words such as 'date', 'love', or 'attracted to'. Don't be afraid to spell it out. _Sherlock thought this through for quite some time. Then, before he could change his mind, he ran down the stairs to find the flat empty. There was a note on the coffee table.

_Gone for a drink at the pub. Leftovers in the fridge. –J_

Sherlock frowned. Well, he certainly wasn't going to let this hinder his plan. He grabbed his coat, hailed a taxi, and gave them the address to John's local.

Sherlock entered the bar as casually as he could, locating John easily. He was seated alone at the bar, nursing a dark colored drink, looking a bit tipsy. He took a deep breath, then walked up and sat down next to the doctor.

"What the hell are you doing here?" John asked, surprised. Sherlock ordered a drink. He was going to need something to move things along.

"I fear I hurt your feelings earlier." Sherlock answered, trying to sound sincere. "I didn't mean to imply that I don't care about your social life" (_Establish common interests and show appreciation for those you don't share_.) "I was only hoping to discuss . . . things other than your most recent girlfriend." John looked surprised, but appreciative.

"Alright. What do you want to talk about then?" Sherlock grinned, and downed his drink. "Anything you like"

Sherlock woke up in a room that was not his own, with a pounding headache. He carefully assessed his body. No broken bones, or sprains or bruises as far as he could tell. Slowly, so as not to jostle his head, he sat up to assess his surroundings. John's room then. In John's bed. With John. Naked. Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Here's the second chapter! It's kinda short, I know, but next chaoter is going to be a bit long. This is where Kath comes in! She only wrote a small part, but it's gorgeous ****. Hope you enjoy it!**

Chapter Two

_Sherlock woke up in a room that was not his own, with a pounding headache. He carefully assessed his body. No broken bones, or sprains or bruises as far as he could tell. Slowly, so as not to jostle his head, he sat up to assess his surroundings. John's room then. In John's bed. With John. Naked. Shit._

What the hell . . . ? Sherlock rubbed his head, and tried to calm himself down enough to think. _John. John naked. John naked beside me in bed. We probably had sex. Why don't I remember? _He then remembered following John to the pub, and drinking. A lot. He had an incredibly low intolerance for alcohol, seeing as though he rarely drank. _Slow down, Sherlock. Put the pieces together. _Sherlock had gone to the pub with the intention of wooing John. He had woken up, naked in John's bed with one hell of a hangover. Conclusion: He and John had had drunken sex. Conclusion: he'd royally fucked up any chance he had, and John was probably going to move out. Conclusion: he really needed aspirin. He covered his face with a pillow and went back to sleep.

Flashes of light, the soft rustle of sheets, an unusual warmth in the space beside him. Sensations swam through John's consciousness when he awoke for a brief moment.

He should've realized then something was wrong. If the immense throbbing in his head wasn't enough, the arm clasped loosely around his waist should've been.

But drowsiness won over him, and instead of being concerned with the form at his back, he snuggled deeper into it, enjoying the familiar aroma it exuded. What was that scent and why did he know it so well?

Sleep overtook him before he could formulate an answer.

Hours later John finally awoke. It was a slow and painful process. The first thing he became aware of was a painfully bright light shining mercilessly upon him, burning through his eyelids.

Out of instinct he groaned and tried to turn away, only to find that this action caused his head to spin and his stomach to roil. He let out a soft whimper and moved slowly to burrow into the warmth beside him.

Ah. Soft. Warm. Mmmm, yes. Good.

Wait. Soft, warm, skin.

John rolled away so quickly he thought he'd tumble off the bed, He managed to catch himself upon the edge, vision dancing and head whirling like a hurricane as a horrifying realization dawned upon him.

It wasn't just skin he'd been cuddled against. It was Sherlock's skin.

Bloody hell.

When Sherlock woke again, it was around four in the afternoon, and he was alone in the bed. He sighed, supposed he knew this was coming. It was quiet in the house; John wasn't here. Sherlock placed his pillow over his face and screamed. He did this for about twenty minutes. Finally, he sat up. _I need a distraction_, he thought. _I need a case._ He hopped up and jumped into the shower, pushing all thoughts of John out of his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Here you go! Next chapter! This time Kath's (the lovely High-Functioning Ginger) part goes first, then mine. I really loved my part, I love Lestrade ****. Still working on ideas for chapter four **** if you have suggestions feel free cough**

Chapter 3

John wasn't proud of what he'd done. It was cowardly, he knew that, slipping quietly from the room in a panicked rush, leaving Sherlock asleep. He knew it was a lowly thing to scramble into his clothes and disappear without a word to Sherlock about what had happened.

He should have lain there for a few moments, collected his thoughts and then gently shaken Sherlock awake so they discuss everything like two reasonable adults.

Even with his occasional drunken, one-night stands he'd always hung around 'til they awoke, awkwardly offered them tea and pain meds before leaving. It was the courteous thing to do.

But when it comes to his best friend he'd just bolted out the door with hardly a second thought. Terror had flamed through his veins upon the realization of who he was sleeping next to and that had been the end of it. He shakes his head in self-disgust as the waitress brings him a cup of coffee.

He's considered running to the pub when he'd left the flat, feeling desperately like he needed another drink. Drown the fear clawing at his gut, the guilt tearing at his chest. But his stomach had different plans and informed him in no uncertain terms that another trip to the pub was out of the question.

So instead he stopped off inside a small, quiet cafe for some coffee and peace. It's a lovely place, with large windows allow sunlight to stream through and dance on the hardwood tables and beige tiles.

The air is pleasantly filled with the scent of coffee and pastries and the muffled conversations from the other patrons are strangely comforting. He's never been in here before, but he makes a mental note to return.

He takes a tentative sip of the steaming liquid and sighs as the bitter flavour washes over him. The coffee is surprising bold and delicious. It's the high point of his morning so far and he allows himself a moment to relish it.

A cheery pop song comes on the radio behind the counter and he winces at the memories it elicits.

A crowded pub, an oddly cheery Sherlock and an evening of conversation. Visions of Sherlock having drinks pressed into his hands, words floating from his own mouth "Come on Sherlock, just one"

He recalls Sherlock finally caving in the downing a beer, then another, and at some point he is pretty sure there were shots, though he's not sure where they came from. Either way it all went downhill from there.

His recollections of the later hours are blurry at best, but he's quite sure there was dancing and giggling and somebody singing. Probably him. Even drunk he doesn't imagine Sherlock would do something as undignified as belting out Bohemian Rhapsody in a public place.

Then cheerful slaps on the back as they departed, a cab being hailed and suddenly heat, so much heat as they whirred down London's roads in a cab.

He's not sure who started it, he doesn't want to be sure, but he knows somehow they ended up a tangle of limbs and clothing, crashing through the door and fumbling up the stairs, into the flat, desperate and hungry and entirely without inhibitions.

Clothing was thorn savagely away, fingers slid against skin, teeth and lips crashing together, moans and hot breaths filing their ears...

He snaps his eyes shut, willing the memories away. His left hand clenches into a fist and he quickly takes a large gulp of his coffee, gasping as the rich beverage scalds his throat. But it turned his mind from the memories of the night before and for that he is thankful.

"Stupid. Stupid. Stupid" he grumbles under his breath. He should've known not to get drunk around Sherlock. It was his fault. Every damn minute.

When he's sober and in control of himself it's not hard to keep his feelings for Sherlock in check. He just beats them away with the constant reminder that Sherlock is his dearest friend and that Sherlock has made it clear that's where their relationship ends.

But drunk and high on the merriment of the evening, he hadn't been able to control himself. In the dim light, with Sherlock's uncharacteristic smile and laughter he'd forgotten himself and allowed himself to believe that Sherlock was a normal bloke with normal desires and that he wanted John in return. Stupid

He wants to bury his face in his hands. He wants to sink into the floor. He wants to run and not stop until he reaches Africa. Okay, Dublin maybe.

What he doesn't want to do is the one thing he knows he has to. He has to return to the flat and apologize to Sherlock and then start packing. The thought makes him sick and he grips the handle of his mug far harder than necessary.

But it's the right move. He betrayed Sherlock's trust, taken advantage of him while he was drunk. And worse, he'd probably spilled his heart out to Sherlock as well, and he knows that's not the sort of thing Sherlock is even remotely comfortable with.

So he'll return to the flat, say his piece and then attempt to salvage what friendship they have left by leaving. He'll do exactly that. As soon as he's finished his coffee and worked up the courage to do so.

Sherlock quietly let himself into the flat, with the key he knew was kept inside a potted plant by the door.

"Lestrade!" he called out, once he was in the small flat. Lestrade had rented it about a month ago when his wife kicked him out, and frankly Sherlock was glad for it. This lock was much easier to pick.

"Sherlock?" came a muffled voice from the bedroom. "What the hell are you doing here?" The DI asked, coming around the hallway. "How'd you even get in?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I need a case."

Greg ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I don't have anything on, Sherlock" he answered, pouring the other man a cup of tea, along with his own. He sat down and sipped his tea wearily, no longer surprised by Sherlock's antics.

Sherlock frowned, foot tapping anxiously. "What, London's criminals have taken the week off? You must have something!" he exclaimed, his voice raising, beginning to pace.

It was Lestrade's turn to roll his eyes. "Sorry, Sherlock. Have a cuppa" Sherlock glared. Greg looked up, frowning. "You alright? You aren't using again, are you?" Greg asked, voice turning stern as he stood. He pushed Sherlock into a chair and forced the mug into his hands.

"Of course not, no wonder you're so terrible at your job. I don't look remotely intoxicated." Sherlock answered, but didn't meet the other man's eyes.

"Drink." Greg dictated. "And take off that bloody coat, it's 20 degrees outside." Greg ran a hand through his graying hair, and took Sherlock's coat,draping it over the back of his chair.

"Sherlock, you're acting very on edge. More so than usual. What's going on?" Lestrade asked, and when he looked into Sherlock's face, he saw the seventeen year old kid he found in the alley, strung out on coke. The one he took home, and let sleep on his couch for two days. The one who deduced his entire life once he woke up, even with an extreme hangover. Sherlock had a sense of vulnerability that Greg hadn't seen in a long time.

"Sherlock?" he asked, voice softening a bit.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and steeple his hands. "I seem to have a made a tactical error. In the extreme."

Greg leaned back, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock was admitting to a mistake?

"What happened?"

Sherlock sighed. "I- John hates me." He rested his forehead on his hands. "I . . . took advantage of him."

Greg frowned. "How do you mean?"

Sherlock gave him a withering stare. "He- we had a few drinks, and I woke up in his bed. Haven't seen him since"

Lestrade's eyes bulged out of his head. "You- had sex? With John? You?"

Sherlock exhaled sharply. "Lestrade. Please." He gave a pleading look. Greg shook his head.

"So, you and John had a bit of a one night stand, and he bolted in the morning? Is that what happened?" Sherlock nodded, eyes on the floor.

"Well, what did you want to happen?" He asked reasonably.

Sherlock was taken aback. "Well, I. Um. I don't know!" he got up and paced. "Not that!"

Lestrade leaned forward. "Sherlock, are you in love with him?" Sherlock looked at him with a helpless expression and said nothing. Lestrade took a deep breath.

"Alright then. We need more tea." He said, allowing Sherlock to compose himself while he poured the cups. When he turned around, the man looked almost his normal self again, very nearly composed.

"Alright. So, Mr. Scientist, what is the first step, according to the Scientific Method?" Lestrade asked, raising one calm eyebrow.

Sherlock sputtered for a moment, not expecting that. "Identify the problem" he answered.

"Right. So, the problem is that you slept with John, and are unsure how he feels about it." Sherlock nodded.

"Already done that then. What's the second step?" Lestrade asked rationally.

"Research. Which I already conducted when I observed the fact that he was nowhere to be found this morning." Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Alright, third step?"

"Construct a hypothesis." Sherlock paused a moment while Greg waited expectantly.

"John has no romantic feelings toward me and regrets the events of last night." Sherlock answered, looking at his lap. Lestrade nodded.

"And then?"

"Experiment. Which I'm not going to do."

Greg frowned. "Why not?" Sherlock gave him an incredulous look.

"I already made him terrified of me! I'm not ruining things further!" He exclaimed, looking panicked.

"Alright, alright." Lestrade said, holding his hands out. "You don't have to"

Sherlock sighed, calming.

"So what are we going to do then?" Greg asked gently. Sherlock thought about it for a moment.

"Nothing. I'm going to pretend it didn't happen, and once John realizes I'm not going to force him to do anything, he'll calm down and everything will be fine again." Sherlock said resolutely.

Greg frowned. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded and said "Otherwise I'll lose him entirely."

Greg shrugged. "Whatever you say, 'Lock" he said, patting him on the back. "You can sleep here tonight. Couch is all your's." he offered, knowing he might not want to go home.

Sherlock nodded gratefully.

"Right. We need drinks then." Greg said, sensing Sherlock needed a change in subject, and Sherlock was grateful.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So soooo sorry for the delay you guys I go to this stupid year round school so I'm just now getting around to finals and Kath had fathers day stuff and so we were both super busy but it's up now! I think there'll just be one more chapter, but that could change. I might add an epilogue . . . see what you think**

John draws a bracing breath before unlocking the door and entering 221. Mrs. Hudson calls hello from her flat and he answers, before slowly ascending the stairs. This is not a conversation he's anxious to have.

He lingers outside their door for a few moments longer than necessary, before forcing himself to open it. His agitation is all for naught, however as the flat appears empty.

He steps inside and closes the door, calling out "Sherlock?"

No answer. In all honesty he'd expected Sherlock to be in the kitchen at his chemistry set. Or packing John's things for him.

"Sherlock?" he tries again, though as he's calling he wonders if Sherlock would answer him even if he were here. He wouldn't put it past Sherlock to hide in his room and studiously ignore him.

However he sees the door to Sherlock's room is partially open and there is no light or movement inside. Sherlock must've gone out.

He shouldn't be surprised. He's known Sherlock to take to the streets for long, winding strolls when a difficult problem presents itself and his thoughts are stagnant in their search for a solution.

Still, he needs to talk to him, before he loses his resolve, so he shoots off a quick text, asking him to return.

I'm at the flat. Could you come home, please? We need to talk.

JW

While he waits he brews a pot of tea. He has a feeling they're going to need it.

Sherlock is walking up the steps to 221B when his phone buzzes from his pocket. His stomach sinks as he reads through it. He was hoping to have time to hide in his room before John got home. He was hoping to never discuss the previous night. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door to the flat.

"John?" he called tentatively. John starts from his seat in the armchair when he hears Sherlock's voice. He stands and answers

"Here. I'm in here Sherlock"

Slowly, Sherlock walks down the hall, removing his coat. He walks into the living room to see John sitting on the couch. He gently lays his coat on the chair and runs a hand over his unwashed hair. "Hello." he murmurs awkwardly.

John draws a deep breath and stands to face him. Words are painstakingly arranged in his mind to form an appropriate apology.

"Sherlock, I want to apologize" he begins. Sherlock frowned, taken aback.

"You . . . apologize?" he manages. John nods and the rest of his words tumble out in a rush.

"Yes - I shouldn't have had so much to drink and I wasn't thinking and really I know I'm a bloody idiot for what I did and I'm so horribly sorry, Sherlock. I know you'll want me to go and I promise I will - I just wanted to say - I don't deserve it - but you mean a lot to me - you're friendship means a lot to me and I don't want this accident to ruin it."

Sherlock shook his head a bit. "You- what? You think I want you to go?" Sherlock was astounded. John was sorry?

John was only half-listening to Sherlock's words, adrenaline pumping through his veins because Sherlock still hasn't said what he desperately needs to hear "Of course we're fine, John." or something along those lines. Anything to let him know that he hasn't lost the best friend he's ever had because of a stupid mistake.

"Yes - I know you want me to leave and I don't blame you at all. I'm sorry, it was stupid and I never should've done it"

All Sherlock heard was 'It was stupid and I never should have done it'. Oh. Right. Even though he knew this John didn't mean anything by the previous night, he still harbored a tiny bit of hope.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock murmured, studying his shoes. "You shouldn't leave, it won't happen again"

"Jesus, Sherlock you don't have to apologize!" John protests, because really Sherlock had nothing to do with it. There is a weight lifted from his chest when Sherlock says he can stay and he lets out a laugh of relief "Of course it won't happen again - I'm not known for making the same mistake twice" he jests, hoping to ease the tension with humour.

Sherlock holds back his wince, but is unable to stop his grimace. "Right." he barks. "Mistake." Sherlock was a mistake. John nods, trying to reassure him that last night wasn't something he'd planned.

"Yes, of course. We'd had too much to drink and it's been a while since I've...you know... and well, you're gorgeous in your own way and well..." his words are getting away from him and this isn't coming out like he'd planned.

"I care about you a lot, Sherlock" he finally says, to end his rambling and hopes that get his message across.

And now Sherlock was just confused. So . . . John wanted this to happen? Or, he wasn't sorry it happened? He thought Sherlock was gorgeous. Sherlock wasn't really sure how to respond, opting to furrow his brows, but nod a bit. He hoped it would look agreeable, and accommodating.

Seeing Sherlock nod, giving him to continue he decided it was time for full disclosure, he owed Sherlock that much at least.

"Look, Sherlock - I - I wasn't going to tell you this, I was going to um...well not lie...but pass all this off as something less than it is, but really what happened is, well alcohol lowers your inhibitions and allows you to do things you want to do, but wouldn't normally because your logical mind talks you out of it, you see?" Sherlock's face scrunched up in confusion.

"What are you saying?" he asked carefully. "Did you plan this or do you regret it? You know I'm not good at understanding emotions, John". He was getting overwhelmed. Why couldn't John just tell him where they stood? He always had to beat around the bush, never saying, in words, what he was thinking. John had never been easy to read.

John lets out a sharp breath of exasperation. "I didn't plan it, honestly I didn't mean for it to happen - and yes I do regret it - I never should've - I'm - I'm just sorry, okay?" he finishes, then waits with baited breath, for Sherlock's decision on the whole matter.

Sherlock bit his lip. "I'm sorry you regret it, John. I won't let it happen again.". He answered, resolute. Anything so that John wouldn't leave.

John's brow furrowed, turning around again. "What do you mean, you're sorry. I should be sorry." Sherlock blinked. What?

"Why would you be sorry? I let my guard down, I lost control." Sherlock reiterated, shaking his head.

John's eyebrows rose. "You wanted this to happen?" he inquired cautiously.

Sherlock almost snapped his neck avoiding John's gaze.

"You did" John said slowly, awe coating his words. "You wanted this to happen. You . . . wanted to sleep with me. And then you got drunk and . . . You wanted this." He finished, finally looking up.

"Excellent deduction" Sherlock murmured under his breath. He pulled his phone from his pocket, reading a non-existent text from Lestrade.

"Case" he lied. "Got to go" and he bolted for the door. But John could be fast too. He caught Sherlock's arm before he could leave.

"Sherlock" he said tentatively. "Don't . . . go, I –" he hesitated. "I don't regret it."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey guys! This is the final chapter **** thanks so much for reading it; it got much better reception that I was expecting. Thanks again to my co-author High-Functioning Ginger, and my beta Gen **

Chapter 5

"_Case," he lied. "Got to go." He bolted for the door, but John could be fast too. He caught Sherlock's arm before he could leave. _

"_Sherlock," he said tentatively. "Don't . . . go, I –" he hesitated, "I don't regret it."_

Sherlock tensed under John's touch. "What do you mean, of course you do." He said curtly. "I have to go."

John rolled his eyes and tightened his grip.

"There's no case, Sherlock. I'm not an idiot."

Sherlock scoffed. "Turn around please." John said gently. Sherlock slowly angled his body toward John, but kept his eyes resolutely down. John smiled.

"Now, want to tell me what happened last night? Because, as much as I probably should, I don't seem to regret it, and I don't think you do either." John said calmly. Sherlock looked up a little.

"We had sex." He said slowly.

"Yes," John agreed. "We did." Sherlock scratched his nose.

"It was nice sex, in my opinion." John probed. "What do you think?"

Sherlock's face didn't change, but his thoughts were racing. John's body language seemed sincere - hands at his sides casually, eyebrows raised, mouth relaxed - he was telling the truth.

John sighed. "Have you finished deducing yet?" Sherlock answered by stepping in closer to John, and frowning slightly.

"Shh," he said vaguely, reaching up to run his fingertips along John's jaw line, which always twitched when he was being insincere. John's breath caught, he noticed, but the muscles were relaxed. Sherlock kissed him.

John stepped back involuntarily, shaken by momentary surprise. To hear Sherlock talk about all of this was one thing, to see him act upon it was an entirely different one. Even though memories of last night lingered in his mind, they're fuzzy at best.

Sherlock growled, indicating confusion at John's backward movement after he'd deduced his willingness for such things.

John found himself stifling a chuckle and quickly pushed forward, bringing a hand to rest on the small of Sherlock's back.

The chaste kiss, is merely a gentle brush of lips against each other, but Sherlock's proximity and erratic breathing are enough to make John's head spin, so he's not interested in pushing beyond this for the moment.

Sherlock is scarcely breathing. He hates the cliché of breathlessness, but is fond if the feeling because it's John, only ever John who's made him feel quite this way and he's drowning in it.

"John," he murmurs because they need to stop, they need to _breathe_.

So John, man that he is, pulls away and smiles; sunlight beaming into Sherlock's face. John puts his hands on either side of the other man's face, to keep him close.

"Are you alright?" he asks softly, noticing Sherlock's shallow breathing.

Sherlock nods, biting his lip. Slowly, he leans in and presses his lips to John's once more.

This time it's different. It's quicker, more desperate. Sherlock feels an indescribable need to be as close to John as he can. _Fascinating_.

There are no arguments on John's end, and he snakes his arms around the detective's thin torso, resting them on his lower back. Sherlock chuckles lowly as they inch downward.

John raises his eyebrows playfully, and pushes Sherlock back until they hit the wall. Sherlock lets out a gasp of surprise which quickly turns into a moan when John takes his lower lip between his teeth. He squirms slightly, unused to feeling so enclosed, causing John to groan and drop his head onto Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock smirks and Rolls his hips slightly, feeling John against his thigh.

"Right, come on, you," John says breathlessly. He grabs Sherlock by his lapels

He grabs Sherlock by his lapels and drags him off the wall so that he can push Sherlock towards the bedroom.

Sherlock's eyebrows rise as they pass John's room. "Interesting," he notes aloud. John, of course, understands.

"I'm never allowed in your bedroom," John mutters teasingly. He kisses Sherlock messily before opening the door. "I'm curious."

He didn't have much time to explore, however, as he was being hastily rushed to the bed. He laughed quietly under his breath.

This time, the kiss was less rushed, but no less passionate. It caught Sherlock a bit off guard, and it took him several minutes to remember his goal. Without breaking the kiss, he sneakily trailed his hands down to undo John's trousers.

John gasped, but went along willingly.

"God, Sherlock," he moaned quietly as Sherlock finally wrapped a hand around his cock. Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he brought Sherlock's lips back to his own with ferocity. Sherlock took this in stride, squeezing John gently, trying to imitate the ways he pleasured himself. Grinning, he moved his lips to John's jaw, then his neck, then his shoulder. He pulled aside John's shirt, not remembering when it had been unbuttoned, and kissed John's scar lightly, letting his hand on John fall

John frowned. "Let's not think about that tonight, please?" he asked, eyes kind.

Sherlock nodded, slowly inching his way back to John's lips.

When he felt John squirm under him, he pulled away, eyes alight. Keeping eye contact with John, he moved himself down to rest between John's legs.

John's eye bulged when he realized what Sherlock was about to do.  
"No, you really don't have to, 'Lock, not if you don't want –" He began, but cut off with a strangled moan as Sherlock slowly took the head of John's cock into his mouth. He hadn't done this in ages, but surely he remembered how. Cautiously, he moved his head down further, sucking lightly.

Sherlock looked up, trying to assess how he was doing. John was gasping, hands clutching at the sheets, eyes clenched shut. He chuckled. _Good, then._

John's hands flew to clutch at Sherlock's hair, as if to echo the sentiment. Sherlock groaned at the feeling, causing John's hands to tighten. Continuing with his mouth, Sherlock reached a hand down to stroke himself. He realized quickly that he wouldn't last much longer, and pulled off of John, only to lick around the head, before sinking his mouth back down . John let out a loud cry, and gave Sherlock's hair a tug of warning.

"Sherlock . . ." he gasped, but Sherlock kept on going. He felt heat pooling in his abdomen, and matches his strokes to his movements on John.

John came very quickly after that, and Sherlock tasted it, heard John panting above him as he quietly came into his own hand.

Sherlock softly pulled off John and crawled up to lay next to him.

"Hmmm," John hummed, kissing Sherlock lightly. "That was nice."

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Right, you seemed to be vaguely enjoying yourself." He scoffed.

"Hey! Watch it, you," John said sternly, pulling Sherlock to his chest.

"We should clean up," Sherlock noted after a few minutes. John growled as Sherlock tried to untangle himself. "What?"

"Let me have my sappy, post-sex, basking!" John said indignantly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and nuzzled his head in John's shoulder.

John just grinned. "You should drink more often." He whispered into Sherlock's ear.


End file.
